Nothing Tastes as Good
by irish-hailsy
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is 16 years old when he's admitted to an eating disorder clinic. Cue Victor Trevor, a nosy ex-classmate who just hangs around. WARNINGS: SI, swearing, ED, slash, drug and alcohol (ab)use.
1. Chapter 1

I don't even know what I'm doing with this.

**Warnings: ED, SI and probable slash. And swearing.**

I do not own the rights to the characters. Or the rights to anything, lets be honest.

* * *

Life at an eating disorder clinic was never intended for thrill seekers or anyone looking for the slightest bit of enjoyment. This was a fact, not an opinion.

The brightly painted walls, soft sofas and piles of books, DVD's and magazines (all carefully chosen as not to encourage negative body image) were a painful contrast to the miserable looking occupants that shuffled aimlessly around the halls, desperate to burn just a few more calories. Rows of girls wrapped in ratty gowns and too loose jeans, all looking tired and washed out versions of themselves.

Kind faced nurses ushered them like sheep to seemingly never ending meals and snacks, all laden with secretive, hidden calories, encouraged them to eat and ignored the tantrums thrown in the dining room every meal, without fail, by the one patient that had had enough, had gained half a kilo more than expected and was never, ever, ever going to eat again as a result.

Life was not much more enjoyable when you were the only male.

Sherlock Holmes was aged sixteen years and four months when Mycroft and his mother had made the mutual agreement that they could no longer stand Sherlock's tantrums, his moods and, most of all, his aversion to food. Mother had packed his bags whilst Mycroft has been able to arrange the paperwork.

It had taken less than ten hours for him to be admitted, with a BMI of just 12, kicking and screaming, to The Creek Clinic, accompanied by his weary mother.

Sherlock had been less than pleased.

The Creek, itself, wasn't the problem. It was set in the outskirts of Windsor, near a small, sleepy village that contained all of the basics, a small pub, an even smaller shop and a post office.

The Creek itself consisted of several buildings, neatly divided into those that didn't eat and those that ate too much, with both parties having very little contact with the other. The dorms were made up of simple, yet comfortable, rooms were shared by two people with an en suite bathroom. There were plenty of facilities, ranging from a fully equipped gym and pool to a small library and chapel. And a kitchen that was accessible 24/7, just in case you were cured in the early hours of the morning and simply couldn't wait until breakfast.

No, the Creek was a perfectly suitable place for those that would benefit from the type of care it offered and had the type of problems it catered for.

Sherlock however, did not.

Sherlock did not, no matter how the so-called professionals (i.e quacks) argued otherwise, have a 'problem'.

He skipped meals on occasion. So what? Everyone did. Not everyone had time to stuff their faces silly constantly. Even Mycroft stopped for breath, once, at 4pm on December 18th. Mainly because he was being promoted at that exact moment and the cream cakes had run short, but that's hardly the point. Food wasn't always necessary.

He had been there four months now, despite him denying there was anything wrong with him.

The food was unappetizing and wholly unappealing, he would, of course, eat it otherwise. And sometimes it just didn't sit right, too much grease or fat or _something_, so that's why he purged.

Simple as.

Nothing sinister or, God forbid, mental about it.

Sherlock Holmes did not have an eating disorder.

* * *

It had started of a normal day, as days are wont to do.

The curly haired teenager was sprawled languidly across the bed, a battered chemistry text, graffitied mercilessly in red pen and highlighter, held between slender fingers. The rain pelted relentlessly against the window, casting a grey light into the room and provided a calming white noise for the teen.

It had not been a good week. He had been unable to gain the weekly one kilo that they wanted, and hadn't really put in a huge amount of effort, if truth be told. As a result his weekend pass had been revoked, not that he had ever used it anyway. As was his time spent in the gym, which was more of an annoyance, as he had began to enjoy his boxing sessions there.

Úna, his key worker, had spent the morning sitting with him in his room, trying to get him to talk, open up about why he still refused to eat. A task that every other nurse, doctor and psychologist still seemingly failed at.

She was one of the more intelligent nurses, a middle aged woman who took careful pride in her appearance, hair always neat, uniform always ironed and impeccable. She had tried to discuss with him textures of food, tastes, body image and even the chemistry of food; having learned that was one of the few things that interested Sherlock. Yet they got nowhere.

Every patient entering the Creek was put on one of two programs. The first was an intensive six-week course, the other was a less intimidating twelve-week course.

Sherlock has been there 17 weeks now, and there was no intention of him leaving anytime soon.

His room was beginning to resemble more of a bedroom than any other patients, despite his careless attitude to the so-called 'personal touches' that the staff so ferociously encouraged.

His desk was filled with notes and newspaper clippings, books on chemistry and true crime causing the small shelf to creak and buckle under the strain. A poster of a intricately drawn, and more importantly anatomically correct skull hung over the headboard of the bed. A pack of cigarettes and lighter hidden carefully in the stuffing of the mattress, a fact that Úna chose to ignore. There was a notable absence of photographs, a feature that was almost uniform to every other bedroom at the clinic.

Úna sighed, getting nowhere with him.

'Have you even attended group sessions in the past fortnight?'

'No,' he answered, flicking the page of his book, trying to convey his disinterest in the conversation.

'Why not?'

'The girls don't want me there.'

'Did they tell you that?'

'Yes.'

'Why do you think they dislike your presence?'

'Because I'm male and I've taken their precious disease from them.'

'Do you ever pass unnecessary remarks?'

His eyes flicked up, amused.

'Possibly.'

'Why do you try to upset them?'

'I don't,' he replies, with genuine confusion, 'I just tell them what I see. Only I'm usually correct.'

'Right. Well, I'll try and sort you out with a different group. Try to play nice, eh, Sherlock?'

He doesn't respond, back to reading.

She leaves him alone in the peace he seems to crave, having reached no conclusion yet again.

There's a bit of a fuss down in reception and Sherlock's name is being thrown around, so she ambles down there instead of to the staff room for her ritual mid-morning cup of coffee.

Life is dull in the clinic and they take every opportunity to see something happen, be it Katy finally reaching her goal BMI or the grey heron that plucks gold koi fish from the pond with endless delight.

From what she can gather from this distance is that there is someone wanting to visit Sherlock.

She can't help but hope that it might be that weird brother of his, Myroft or Mycroft or something equally ridiculous. The staff all knew of him, yet he never showed his face, only pestered them for more details on his brother's recovery. His mother seemed to stay out of it completely, having showed up a week after the boy was admitted but never again, leaving without the tearful expression that Úna had been expecting from her.

Úna tried not to get angry on Sherlock's behalf. She didn't, try as she might, understand the situation for the family, maybe things were difficult, maybe his mother was unable to make the journey to see him.

Yet when she thought of her own six-year-old daughter waiting at home, she couldn't imagine sending her away and not visiting. The very thought made her stomach turn and knot.

But upon nearing the desk she could see that it was not his brother or his mother, but instead a gangly teenage boy still dressed in his ridiculous, distinctive Eton uniform. He was slouched on the counter, over-stuffed satchel hanging precariously from his shoulder.

'I dunno, we were like….in school together. Few years back?' he was telling the young girl on reception, looking out of place in the room.

The bemused receptionist beckoned Úna over, explaining the situation to her.

'This young man, urm, Victor Trevor, is it?' the young man in question nodded, 'right, well, he's looking for Sherlock. They went to Eton together. Apparently'

Úna eyed up the boy dubiously, his long hair flopping into his eyes with casual grace.

_He looks like a twat, _she thought, somewhat unfairly. It wasn't really his fault that he looked a little like an ex of hers. _C'est la vie._

'He hasn't mentioned you, I'm afraid, Victor.'

'Yeah, well, it don't matter much. Just got some of his old things. Course work, if he wanted it or whatever,' he shrugged, not looking too put out.

Úna thought of the young boy, ridiculously alone, despite his refusal to admit it, even to himself. He would spend the rest of the day wrapped up in his studies, attending only what was enforced upon him and even then with a sour attitude coupled with obvious reluctance.

Perhaps a friend would do him good. Someone to talk to, someone ultimately _normal, _separate from eating disorders and medical staff.

Victor straightened up, grinning crookedly at her, flattening his brown hair against his head and straightening his jacket.

'I don't bite. Promise.'

'All right, go on,' and with that she led Victor Trevor to Sherlock's bedroom.

* * *

This is awful. But I have written it and have no self-control, so I will post it regardless.

**Reviews would be fantastic!** Even if to say 'please don't update, it's awful, like, so bad it's cruel'.

Victor Trevor isn't an OC. He appeared in The Adventure of Gloria Scott.

**Thank you for reading!** If anyone is slightly interested in an update, then so day, or else this will probably just be abandoned. I am not a driven person.


	2. Chapter 2

Coarse language, mention of ED, mentions of drug use and alcohol abuse.

I do not own anything. Ever. I am poor.

* * *

Victor Trevor was seventeen and in his own, very modest opinion, he was as fantastic as fuck. The sun shone out of his bloody arse and anyone that denied it was a fool.

Victor was many things, all good things. One things Victor Trevor was not was bored. He was too interesting for that shit. Only boring people were bored. And he was definitely not boring.

Despite this important fact, however, he did, on occasion find himself at a loose end. Like this morning. It was Sunday, no school and only chapel, which was easy to get out off.

He had woken up in town, sprawled out on a bench on the common, missing his wallet and one sock but had found a pounding headache instead, along with a rolled joint in his pocket. Wasn't all bad then.

Stumbling into his dorm room he saw Benjamin was already up, sitting at the desk and studying like the sad prick he was. Books piled precariously over him and it was probably breaking some sort of health and safety regulation. Imagine being crushed by textbooks? That'd be embarrassing. Victor would have to lie, say he'd died OD'ing or doing something more interesting. He would not let Benjamin be remembered as a sad prick, even if he was.

He decided was not going to hang around in that sort of environment; it was bad for the soul, for the spirit. Bad for his hangover. Besides he really didn't want to think about the impending exams, lurking ominously in the school calendar.

Fuck that shit.

He had gone to irritate James, one of the two boys that occupied the room next to theirs, but James was also busy 'studying', with his door locked and no doubt a box of tissues by his side. He could almost hear the slicking noises from outside. Jesus.

So yes, Victor Trevor was at a bit of a loose end.

It was a strange train of thought that took him up to the dusty records room, situated on the top floor of the administrative building. It had taken a fair deal of stealth, but the staff there were all a bit useless.

It was mainly curiosity that led him there, to see what the teachers said about him. If they appreciated his brilliant mind. Maybe his father was lying about all the awful school reports they sent home, and the months of summer punishment were all uncalled for. Maybe.

He never reached his file though, because he then decided that he cared more about the lucky ones that had managed to leave the upper-class prison that called itself 'Eton'.

_Charles Young_

Left in second year. Blonde, pretty, maybe too pretty. Transferred to Le Rosey, according to his files, the lucky man. All these beautiful girls…God, Victor was almost drooling just thinking about it.

He had also failed Latin in first year. The lying arse had told Victor he had got a B.

Victor shoved his file back in the box, irritated, searching for another familiar name.

_Peter Carroway_

Left due to financial problems. Father had been a banker in Canary Wharf, lost his job. Gone back to a local day school in Bristol. Can't envy that.

Clean record, all rather dull. Only one detention, for being late to history in third year 3 morning in a row. Dull, dull, dull.

Another file was tossed back into the box haphazardly, continuing his search for something more interesting.

_Sherlock Holmes_

Sherlock Holmes.

Now that was a familiar name. Victor remembered him vaguely. They had been in the same maths and chemistry class. He had tried to buy fags off him once when he was 14 but the weirdo had been doing something unholy with a mouse, hacking it up like the little psycho he was.

He had been expelled in third year, quietly, although no one really knew why.

He had, according to Connor, drunk half a bottle of vodka in physics one afternoon. Even Victor had been quietly impressed at that.

Poor sod used to be beaten up more times than anyone else in their year. Victor watched it happen, in the halls one day. He had just kept walking and the next day the guilt set in when Holmes had turned up to class with a black eye. Still, maybe if he hadn't acted like such a freak he would have been fine. It was his own fault, really.

He opened the delightfully thick file.

_Sherlock Scott Holmes_

_D.O.B – 6.1.1995_

Booooring. He turned the pages irritably, desperately searching for something more interesting.

A huge wedge of behavioural reports, all written up by the school psychologists. Teacher's complaints, complaints from his roommates and other students. Complaints from staff in general. Complaints from almost anyone that he would have been in contact with.

The same words came popped up repeatedly.

_Disruptive, reckless, uncontrollable, anti-social behaviour, inappropriate, dangerous, immature, unstable._

Eventually a final note was stamped in deep red ink.

_Expulsion. _

Looked like Sherlock Holmes really knew how to piss people off.

The following pages contained follow up notes of his current schooling.

_The Grange Therapeutic School : April 2010 - October 2011 (withdrawn) _

Then five months before another date appeared.

_Creek Clinic School: March 2012-_

It was this that interested Victor the most.

He knew of The Creek. It was that hospital place full of skinny girls that read too many fashion magazines. Thighs as wide as Victor's wrists, heads wider than their own bodies. Disgusting. Still, Victor probably would if he had a chance.

It was a £3 train journey to get there, along for 50p for a bus if you were feeling lazy. He had an ex, Italian, stunning and best of all, not a word of English, that had a flat near the place, before she had gone back to Milan to study art.

Fantastic bar in the town, free shots between 11pm and 1am on a Wednesday night. You were promised a good time with that amount of free alcohol.

The hospital was set out from the town, if Victor remembered correctly. He had woken up outside it once and one of the nurses had asked him, very rudely, to move as he was blocking the gate. It was a pretty big place thought, and Victor was fairly sure the twat could have managed to walk around him.

But that whole not eating thing was for girls. Boys don't worry about that shit, they just get on with it, right? You don't hear about lads going on liquid diets, or the Atkins or the cabbage soup thing or whatever it was.

Philip down the corridor eats five protein bars a day, but that's for sport. The skinny runt needs to beef up. Simple.

Maybe it was for those fat ones too. The ones that eat their feelings. Yeah, probably was. Boys do that. Isaac in his history class was bloody massive. He broke a chair once in chapel and Victor thought he'd piss himself laughing at the lummox.

So Sherlock Holmes was fat now. Or skinny. Or maybe he just went to school there…for some reason.

This wasn't a thought that amused Victor as much as it should have.

He still felt minutely guilty about the whole thing.

He hadn't seemed like a terrible person. Fucking mental. And a bit of wanker.

But he had let Victor copy his maths test back in first year, and that was a pretty decent thing.

So it was with this guilt that Victor went back to his room, ignoring Benjamin still wrapped up in osmosis and cell division. He gathered his chemistry and maths notes, taking them down to the deserted photocopying room, making copies.

Packing them into a bag, he caught the next bus out, because he was feeling lazy, along with a train, because he wasn't going to walk ten miles.

He was just bringing him coursework. He was at a loose end and he was dropping off coursework.

He wasn't nervous at all. He certainly was not guilty for never telling anyone to stop attacking the fucker. Even if he knew they would have stopped if he had spoken out.

He was Victor Trevor and he was never bored and he was never guilty.

He was just at a loose end.

* * *

Thank you so much for the kind reviews! I have just finished very stressful exams and have a week off before I start work, but hopefully more updates soon!

Once again, Victor Trevor is not an OC.

I also do not, obviously, share his reviews RE: eating disorders.

Please review! I thrive off them

Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: swearing

Many thanks to my wonderful BB, Marill, who pretty much writes this and I just copy and paste. 3

Slow updates, as usual. Busy, busy, busy. Sorry!

Thank you to everyone who reviewed and hope you enjoy :)

* * *

Sherlock had made riveting plans to study, followed by a forced dinner of extra-high calorie foods, followed by even more study, followed by tea or sugary biscuits and protein shakes, followed by lounging about in the common room for the remaining few, slow hours before bed. That was his routine. He didn't exactly like it, but it was his. Familiar and comfortable.

So when Victor Trevor had turned up it had been the last thing Sherlock had expected, or wanted.

One minute he was reading, wrapped up in a world of alkaline metals and atomic numbers, and the next there was some bloody Eton boy standing in his doorway. His uniform was ridiculous, starched until it refused to bend. He had shaggy brown hair in dire need of a cut, a small, slightly crooked mouth matched with slightly crooked teeth and weirdly pointy eyebrows. He dragged a leather satchel behind him dramatically, the bag bursting with textbooks.

The boy grinned, rapping a short rhythm on the door that was propped open. That was one of the more annoying rules. Doors had to remain open at all times during the day. If not they tended to assume you had tried to kill yourself, even if you'd only wanted to dress in private for once.

'Mind if I…?' said the boy asked, jerking his head into the room.

'Yes, I fucking mind. Piss off,' Sherlock snapped, furious he'd even been allowed this far into the building, yet cautious not to yell too much. He'd already been put into extra sessions for aggression, when it really wasn't his fault that everyone around him was so damned stupid.

The boy took no offence, marching into the room with the demeanor of someone who was _wanted_, as opposed to someone who had just pranced in.

'Alright, alright, don't get your knickers in a twist. I was nominated; we're a democracy, you see, by our class to bring you your coursework, like. For you're A-Levels and whatnot," he stated, dumping the heavy satchel on the floor with a dull thud.

'And I fucking left. Two years ago!'

The boy laughed, unfazed by this, tossing his head back, 'yeah, you caught me out. I'm just nosy, really. Still, you can keep the textbooks. Stole them from lost and found and I aint lugging them back to college.'

'I fucking got that, dipshit. Fuck. Off.' Sherlock glared, eyes dark in a face of sharp angles and translucent skin.

'You've been here two years then? Jesus. Should have come sooner, eh?' the boy said, plopping himself into the over-stuffed armchair that Una had only just recently vacated.

'17 weeks, actually, not that it's got anything to do with you,' he bit out, for try as he might he had yet to restrain himself from correcting someone.

'Ah, not so bad then, ri'? Like, better than two years at least, I suppose. God, you don't get many visitors, do ya?' he noted, looking around at the room, taking in the bed made with military precision, the clothes folded neatly into the wardrobe and books piled precariously on most surfaces. Yet, even amongst this mess, the absence of 'get well' soon cards and flowers, small teddies from home and all of those silly little trinkets people brought, was startlingly obvious. Even he had received of those things when he got his appendix out, aged thirteen. Most of his friends visited and his mother never left his side, fussing over him as if he were eight. This room looked…incredibly lonely.

Sherlock's initial anger was morphing slowly, very slowly, into impatience and irritability. This kid was weird.

Why the hell was he locked up when nosy freaks like him walked free? Someone should look into that.

Sitting down like he owned the bloody place.

Wanker.

'Excuse me, sorry. So terribly sorry. There's been an awful mistake. You seem to be under the impression I want you here. I don't,' Sherlock tried, giving a new tactic a go. Maybe he wasn't able to get the hint, although how this was any clearer than a quick 'fuck off', he did not know.

'It's alright, don't you worry about me, pet. Ooooh, chocolates. Assuming you won't be eating them? No? Cool. I'll help meself then, ta,' he grinned, not waiting for an answer, popping a chocolate into his mouth, moaning obscenely as it melted on his tongue.

'Fuck. Off,' he said, quickly resorting back to Plan A. Simple diction, maybe he couldn't understand anything more complex than one worded sentences.

The other boy seemingly ignored him, loosening his collar and sighing in exaggerated relief, long legs stretched out in front of him as he slouched down in the chair.

'So, what do you do here for fun then? Seems like a right fucking depressing place to be.'

'It's a fucking nuthouse, of course it's depressing. Are you dense?'

'You don't remember me, do you?" the boy laughed, watching him with interest, ice blue eyes glittering wildly.

Sherlock glared. He never enjoyed anyone doubting his abilities. Ever.

'Victor Trevor. You were in my class for chemistry and maths. You were good friends with Tag Knowles. You were as thick as fuck.'

'Oi, I totally resent that. Very skilled with my hands, if you know what I mean,' Victor winked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Sherlock didn't laugh at his poor attempt at humour. Victor watched him briefly before giving up any hope of a reaction, shrugging and reaching into the satchel dumped on the floor, pulling out a dented tin of cigarettes.

'It's a gift. Kinda. Didn't actually buy them for you, got them as a mistake. Fucking menthol, hate the bloody things. But better than nothing. I mean, I assume you smoke, right? Doesn't everyone smoke?'

'I smoke,' was the only answer he got.

'Right, well. There's a shoulder of vodka in there too.'

'Why?'

'Why not?' Victor shrugged.

'Why are you here?'

'No one's heard from you in like, forever. It was fucking weird. Curiosity killed the cat, but information brought him back and all.'

'It's hardly like anyone spoke to me when I was there, or have you forgotten that little tidbit of information?'

Victor looked uncomfortable for the first time, shifting ever so slightly in his seat. It was barely noticeable, but that's what Sherlock did. He noticed things.

'No, I didn't forget that. It was just weird though. You being here. I mean…well…'

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes.

'Light.'

'What?'

'Lighter, fuckwit. I need a lighter. To light a fag? Or did you think I could conjure up a flame by magic?'

'Oh! Yeah, cool, course! Here,' he said, perking up, clearly relieved that they were no longer talking about the hell their entire year had given Sherlock when they were in Eton, and he tossed a plastic lighter at him, 'can you smoke in here? My ex couldn't, when she got locked up. But she was proper mental, like. You know, homicidal and shit.'

'…right, thanks for telling me that charming anecdote, Trevor. Really, you should right a book,' Sherlock said, going over to the window and forcing it open, carefully unhooking the chain from the latch. He leaned out as far as he could, careful not to let the smoke drift back into the room.

'Anytime, I'm full of anecdotes. Never boring, right?'

'You're boring me now,' Sherlock lied. That in itself was strange. Maybe that's why he wasn't bored. This was just plain strange. Maybe he was gone completely mad again, back to hallucinations and hearing voices. Why the hell was he hallucinating Victor Trevor?

'Ah, bullshit.'

'Listen to me Trevor. I am sorry that I'm not being experimented on or whatever. It's really rather dull.'

'Can't say I'm not a little disappointed, mate.'

'Oh just fuck off. Sorry to deprive you of some gossip for your fucking 'chums' back at bloody Eton!' he yelled, having abandoned all hope of staying calm.

Victor flinched in the chair, having been taken aback by the dig.

'Fuck, no. It's not like that, sorry if you think that.'

'Oh, you're just here for a gawp, then, are you? Like I'm a fucking animal in a fucking cage, yeah?'

Victor no longer looked cocky, instead getting to his feet.

'Alright, fine. Fine, I got the point. Enjoy the cigarettes mate.'

'Oh, piss off.'

Victor Trevor left as quickly as he came, sans bag this time.

Sherlock Holmes did not feel remorseful as he left. He did not regret ruining a chance of a link with the outside world.

He did not regret it at all.

* * *

So you can follow me at hailsy dot tumblr etc. etc.

Please review! As usual, I thrive of them. I love them and without them I'd never be bothered to update.


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